Kydd

by Julian Stockwin

  Cantlow’s venomous glare was interrupted by the arrival of Lieutenant Lockwood. “Report, Mr. Cantlow,” he ordered.

  “Well, sir, I — ”

  “You’re useless, and stupid,” Lockwood said, “so muster your men again and report.” Lockwood took position on the centerline. Although he was young, his voice already had the crack of authority. “Still!” All activity on the gundeck ceased. “We have just been alerted by Amphion frigate that the French have taken advantage of this easterly to put to sea. But not from Brest. Four ships-of-the-line and frigates have sailed from Douarnenez to the south of here, and we think they mean to proceed to the Caribbean and our valuable sugar islands. They did not reckon on our vigilance, and now we will make sure that they never arrive!”

  A savage growl arose from the gun crews.

  “The weather in this light blow is not in our favor — but they have formed line and are offering battle. We will oblige them!”

  A deeper-throated sound swelled into cheers.

  “Haaaands to make sail!”

  The boatswain’s calls pierced into the excitement. Kydd ran topsides with the others of the gun crews assigned to sail trimming. The brilliant sun made him screw up his eyes, but he knew by instinct the position of the mizzen shrouds and his leap took him into the ratlines. He swarmed up to the mizzen top.

  It was a chance to take in the scene of impending battle. Far ahead against the nondescript line of the coast were the enemy — four small clusters of ivory sails emerging from Douarnenez Bay and sailing large before the light easterly wind, four big vessels in line formation, taking advantage of the offshore winds of the morning. They were headed from right to left across Duke William’s bows, standing out for the Atlantic, but seemingly in no hurry to close and grapple.

  On the starboard tack Duke William was heading toward a point of intersection ahead of them, clawing her way to windward in the frustrating light winds, doing her best to get within range. The ripple under her forefoot sounded like the contented chuckle of a country millstream at a sleepy knot or two.

  “’Less we can get the old barky to lift up her skirts ’n’ run, we’re goin’ to lose ’em,” the captain of the top said bitterly. He looked over the flat seas to their fellow ships-of-the-line in staggered line abeam. Tiberius led Royal Albion by a short head, and both were significantly ahead of Duke William.

  “Know what that is?” the man said sharply to Kydd, without turning his head. “That there’s gun money ’n’ head money ’n’ mebbe even a mort o’ prize money, that is. One chance we get in this bucket to lay ’ands on an honest guinea or two and we meets wi’ a dead calm.”

  Others in the top rumbled their agreement.

  A weather stuns’l was not a success, however, backwinding the main topsail, and it was struck. Swearing, they toiled at the sail, which had managed to wrap itself around the topmast stay when the halliards were let go.

  As the day wore on, it became apparent that the enemy were equally affected by the lazy weather, straggling along in a slow, ragged line. At two, the wind failed altogether, and the ship hung lifeless in the water, sails barely stirring. She lost way and after ghosting along for a space she simply did not answer her helm and drifted, the slight swell causing an aimless clack of blocks aloft.

  “Awaaaay all boats!”

  Tumbling into the cutter, Kydd made room on the thwart for Renzi. The rowers would go double-banked in this attempt to tow Duke William into action, and together with the larger pinnace and launch they would do their utmost to close with the enemy. Even the Captain’s barge took a line from the fo’c’sle.

  It was cruel, backbreaking work: the hard thwart and unyielding oar, the burning pain in the back and arms, the hands turning into claws. With the inertia of two thousand tons their oars threshed the water uselessly while the boat remained dead in the water.

  It took all of ten minutes of toil at the oars by hundreds of men to see the tiniest move through the water of the great battleship. They were now half a mile behind Royal Albion, who also had all her boats out.

  “Pull, you scurvy lubbers!” The tiny midshipman’s piping voice was almost comical as he tried to emulate the bull-roaring of Tewsley in the launch.

  Although it was not strong, the sunlight glittered on the unbroken sea surface and reflected up into their faces. Kydd was grateful for his hat, but felt his face redden from the glare. They pulled on in silence, a steady long pull, leaning well back to get the straightest line from chest to feet against the stretchers athwartships.

  A series of disjointed thuds sounded distantly, then cannonballs skipped and splashed audibly around them. Kydd glanced about him as he pulled, and was relieved to see that the shots were well scattered. One of the enemy ships was nearly hidden by clouds of slow-moving gunsmoke.

  Nevertheless it was unnerving. The enemy had their broadside facing them while their own guns would not bear so far forward. They pulled on. More thuds, more balls. A long space, and then an avalanche of crumps. This time the sound was appreciably nearer and the balls skipped and smashed with venom among them. Some came between the boats and two struck the ship with a peculiar sound like a blunt axe smashing into rotten wood.

  “Eyes in the boat!” piped the little midshipman, as some men missed their stroke looking over their shoulder.

  There was a fierce muttering. It was one thing to be under fire with their own cannon roaring defiance from their wooden ramparts and another to be helpless in the open with no means of reply.

  A catspaw of wind ruffled the water and subsided. Another came and went. Anxious faces looked toward the fo’c’sle but nothing changed.

  A double rush of thumps and a storm of shot broke over them. One ball plowed into the bow of the pinnace and opened it like a banana, instantly cutting off the shrieks by plunging every occupant into the sea. Without waiting to be told, lines were slipped and the boats returned, the launch remaining to pick up survivors.

  But the wind seemed to have returned. Sails were stirring, flapping desultorily, the huge battle ensign lifting momentarily and falling.

  So weary were they that it was impossible to climb the Jacob’s ladder over the stern and they were waved around to the entry port. Aching and sore, they mounted the side steps and made their way back to their battle stations.

  On the lower gundeck the gun crews waited. Kydd sat against the gun carriage, head in his hands, exhausted.

  “Denison, you ’n’ Kydd change,” Stirk said, giving Kydd a break from his arduous gun-tackle duty. Kydd nodded his gratitude. Cullen brought the round shot to the gun with Denison.

  It was hot and fetid, even with the gunports open, but a whisper of a breeze now wafted cool sea air over them. Kydd was stripped to the waist, a red bandanna around his head. He closed his eyes and let the talk eddy around him.

  “No, I tell a lie. An able seaman’s share, that’d be over five poun’ we gets to take one o’ they Frenchies.”

  “O’ course I’ll do that — ’n’ if it’s me, then I’d take it kindly if you could visit me sister, she’s all I got. I’ll ask Lofty ter write ’er name ’n’ lodgin’ out for you — she’s a widder, yer knows.”

  “An’ we’ll hire a coach, Will, go to Winchester an’ kick up a Bob’s-adyin’ they’ll never ferget!”

  Kydd forced himself to open his eyes. With both sides manned, the gundeck was crowded with men and equipment. The guns were already loaded, only awaiting the order to open fire. On the centerline were scuttled casks of water with vinegar, and long cases containing cutlasses and sea-service pistols lay open. It was the first time he had seen the vessel prepared in earnest for war. It was rare for a line-of-battle ship actually to fight: it did its work more by the threat of its existence, but now the greatest single weapon in history so far would have to justify its being.

  He saw Cantlow in low conversation with Lockwood, and the gunner, Mr. Bethune, making his way slowly along in his plain black waistcoat, his bright eyes darting about in a
last check before he went down into the magazine.

  Painfully Kydd got to his feet and went to the gunport to lean out.

  The enemy seemed to be holding their fire until the smoke cleared — it hung downwind of them in gigantic clouds above the sea, with little movement to disperse it. Royal Albion to larboard had some sort of signal hanging out and Tiberius was in the process of dowsing a staysail.

  As he watched, the enemy man-o’-war last in line erupted in stabs of flame and was instantly enveloped in gunsmoke. Kydd flinched. In quick succession there were two loud crashes overhead somewhere, followed by a terrifying splintering smash as a round shot pierced the side near the foremost gun.

  Through a jagged entry-hole it smashed diagonally across the gundeck, taking with it the head of the rammer of the number-one gun, together with the leg and thigh of one of the gun-tackle crew and the hand of his mate. It slammed across the main hatch gratings, pulping the golden-haired powder monkey in its path, and hit an opposite gun squarely, dismounting it.

  The screaming started-and the tearing sobs of a ship’s boy unable to comprehend the bloody carcass of his friend.

  Kydd was paralyzed with horror. His eyes followed the procession of moaning, hideously bloody men carried down to the orlop and the hands of the surgeon.

  “Get forrard ’n’ give ’em a hand, lad,” Stirk said, in neutral tones.

  Kydd stared at him, then started for the scene of carnage.

  Human tissue was everywhere. It did not seem possible that a body could contain so much blood.

  “Get ’is legs, mate,” a seaman said. Two others had a headless torso by the arms, quite untouched apart from its surreal shortening, ending in obscene white tendrils in a meaty matrix.

  Kydd gingerly picked up the dead body’s feet, noting the heavy wear in the shoes that the man had put on that morning. He started pulling the body backwards.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” flared a man at the other end.

  Kydd stood dumbfounded, his mind no longer working.

  “He goes overside, mate,” the other said kindly.

  Numb, Kydd complied, and the body, slithering floppily, went out of the gunport to splash into the bright sea below. He resumed his place at the gun and tried to control his trembling. There would be another broadside soon. At the very next moment another cannonball might blast into the gundeck. This time it might be him.

  Stirk stood with his arms folded across his hairy chest, slowly chewing a quid of tobacco, his face expressionless. His calm, his strength, reassured Kydd, whose trembling subsided.

  “We’ll settle those sons of whores! Serve ’em out the double what they did t’ us!” Kydd said violently.

  Stirk looked at him in amusement. “Yair — and when we get amongst ’em, we’ll give ’em such a mauling as will have ’em beg for quarter inside an hour — on their knees!”

  “Blast me eyes if we don’t take all four!” Salter said, white teeth gleaming.

  “A pity there ain’t others — could do wi’ the prize money,” Doggo croaked.

  The next flurry of thuds produced a fluster of confused bangs and breaking sounds from above, but no rending crashes into the gundeck.

  Kydd tried to still his thudding heart. It was the uncertainty, the knowledge that out there was an enemy who was doing his best to kill him. His remaining time on earth might well be measured in seconds. To his shame his knees began to tremble again.

  He snatched a glance at Stirk — the same neutral passivity, the unconcern.

  Impulsively, Kydd moved closer to him and said in a low voice, “Toby, how c’n you — I mean, why doesn’t it . . .” He tailed off, feeling his face burning.

  Stirk frowned. “Yeah — I know what yer mean, mate.” Idly stroking the top of the massive gun, Stirk went on, “Fair time ago, when I was a nipper, I shipped in Terrier sloop, out east. There was a yellow bugger, name o’ Loola, in the fo’c’sle wi’ us.” He smiled briefly. “Weren’t much chop as a seaman, ’n’ he useta pray at this ’eathen god thing ’e ’ad, with a big belly and fool expression, but ’e ’ad his life squared away right pretty, answers fer everything. ’N’ he said somethin’ savvy that I never forget, ever. ’E said as ’ow it’s dead certain yer’ll get yours one day, but yer never gonna know what that day is when yer wakes up in the mornin’.” He coughed self-consciously. “But yer ’as to know that if it is the day, then yer faces what comes like a hero-and if it ain’t the day, then it’s a waste o’ yer life worryin’ about it.”

  A few moments later the ragged strike of a broadside came, this time with no solid impacts sensed through the deck.

  “Firin’ at the rigging, they do,” Stirk said derisively. “Thinks they’ll cripple us so’s they can skin out.”

  Taking a deep breath, Kydd felt his fear recede. He straightened, and ventured a smile. “Shy bastards — can’t take a mill man to man!”

  Stirk studied him and nodded.

  Another spasm of cannon fire banged out. The noise was appreciably nearer now, and the sound of balls striking above had a vicious quality.

  A boatswain’s mate appeared at the fore hatch. “Sail trimmers aloft!”

  Kydd realized that this included him. He ran up the hatchways, aware that he would now be facing a hail of shot unprotected in the rigging.

  He was shocked by the disorder on deck. In place of the neatly squared and precisely trimmed appearance of the decks, there was a wasteland of debris — blocks fallen from aloft, some with lines still reeved through them, unidentifiable fragments of splintered wood and unraveled rope. Long gouges in the decking told of the brutal impact of iron on wood.

  Looking up, Kydd saw that with the angle of strike of the balls several sails could be pierced at once, and there seemed to be holes everywhere in the sails aloft.

  “Get going, lads, fore tops’l yard’s taken a knock,” the boatswain said. Directly above, Kydd saw that the outer third of the spar was hanging at an angle where a shot had mutilated the yard, and the topsail flapped in disorder under it.

  He swung into the foreshrouds, cringing at the threat of another broadside in the rigging — but remembering Stirk’s words, he thrust it brutally from his mind. As he climbed he looked to see where the French ships were. There they bore, strung out in a widely separated line passing across their bows. They were shockingly close, a bare mile away, while their own ships closed in roughly abreast of each other.

  Royal Albion and Tiberius were ahead of Duke William and would soon fall upon the enemy, while the last French vessel, a large threedecker, would apparently be their opponent. The afternoon breeze had picked up and there was now no chance for the French to avoid action. Kydd reached the foretop and stood waiting for orders while others arrived next to him. A pair of capstan bars would be used in fishing the topsail yard, and he was one of the party assigned to perform the outboard lashing. A sullen bellow of guns rolled across the water. The third enemy battleship disappeared behind a wall of gunsmoke as she fired on the nearer Tiberius, but this time the smoke clouds dissipated, rolling slowly downwind.

  On Duke William’s poop, fifes and drums began a jaunty, defiant tune — a thumpity thump, thumpity thump rhythm:

  Hearts of oak are our ships!

  Jolly tars are our men!

  We al-always are ready!

  Steadyy, boys, steadyyy!

  The gunas of the last French ship in line broke out in a thunderous roar and almost immediately the assault struck.

  Unseen missiles slapped through sails and parted ropes — the whirring of chain shot was unmistakable, the two links sliding apart and whirling around through the air in an unstoppable scythe of death. They caught one man climbing around the futtock shrouds, effortlessly cutting him in half. The torso fell silently. A ball slammed past the side of the foretop, its passage so violent that it sent a man staggering over the edge, his scream instantly cut off when his body broke over a carronade below, scattering the gun crew. A twang and thrum of impacts on ta
ut ropes and the onslaught was over. Kydd stirred from his frozen position, heady with the realization that he was spared. This was not to be his day for eternity.

  “Pass the bloody lashing, then!” the boatswain’s mate yelled from the top. His voice cracked falsetto with tension.

  Kydd passed the seizing as fast as he could — the others tumbled into the shrouds and made the deck as he finished. He thought of Bowyer and made the lashing a good, tight, seaman-like one before he joined them. For no reason at all, a startlingly clear image of Guildford’s High Street overlaid his vision — the sun out, the street streaming with gentlemen and their ladies, beggars, and children with their whipping tops and hobbyhorses playing outside the red brick Holy Trinity church.

  The noise and smoke increased. The French were near, very near. Kydd heard a smart tap on the foremast as he completed and reached the foretop. Looking down, he saw a musketball rolling spent across the top. On impulse he picked up the flattened disk and put it in his pocket before sliding dizzyingly down the backstay to the deck.

  A last look showed the enemy only a few hundred yards away, and their own bows beginning their swing finally to place their ship side by side with the looming three-decker. With a thrill of excitement Kydd knew that the time for real battle had arrived, and he clattered down the ladders at a rush.

  Just as he arrived on the lower gundeck there was a roar of cheering as the great thirty-two-pounders opened up with a mind-numbing slam of sound. The deck instantly choked with smoke blown back in the gunports, thick acrid wreaths that caught him in the throat. He stumbled into Lockwood, disoriented. The smoke began to clear with the strengthening breeze and he caught sight of his gun, the figures of the crew emerging, Doggo’s shapeless hat unmistakable.

  Stirk’s eyes gleamed — his concentrated expression had a ferocious intensity. The gun crew moved fast and economically on the reload. Kydd and Cullen hurried the shot cradle to the muzzle, lifting the deadly iron sphere into the hot maw.